


The Upbringing of an Outlaw

by missing_archive_401



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dutch is too, Gen, I wanted to write Arthur’s beginning relationship with his dads, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, abuse mention, hosea matthews is a good dad, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missing_archive_401/pseuds/missing_archive_401
Summary: When the teenager was first found by Dutch Van der Linde and Hosea Matthews, he wasn't much more than a stick with gangly limbs, bruised and fleshy like a rotten peach, and covered in more dirt than a pig pen.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	The Upbringing of an Outlaw

When the teenager was first found by Dutch Van der Linde and Hosea Matthews, he wasn't much more than a stick with gangly limbs, bruised and fleshy like a rotten peach, and covered in more dirt than a pig pen. A fourteen-year-old, alone without a family or a place to call home. Both parents dead, he lived on the streets for a long time. All he had was a dirty shirt three sizes too big, pants that drooped to his knees, and a peeling hat with rope tied haphazardly around the base. He was loud, angry, and full of gnashing teeth as they came up to him that fateful afternoon. Spitting like a pissed off cat and twitching with worrisome fingers. They took all of five seconds until they decided they'd adopt him, the orphan boy, both looking at each other in a way of saying, "but look at him, he's adorable." 

The boy was taken from the empty shit-hole-of-a-town he was found in to the tents Hosea and Dutch lived in; not much of an upscale or improvement, but it felt just the same. Sleeping under the stars was better than in the dirt, caked in pig filth and spit on by passers by. The cold frigid night air suit him just fine. He was always moving place to place, slipping in the nooks and crannies of forgotten buildings and being beat down and thrown out of others. He was used to adults looking the other way, stepping on him, kicking him, laughing and tormenting him. His experiences leaving him breathless and groaning in his dreams from nightmares he forgets as soon as he wakes up. The fear coursing through his veins like the thrum of a train across rickety tracks.

He told them his name, Arthur, because it was all he had to give. Only other gift he had besides his temper was his quick pickpocketing hands, and even that wasn't much to shake a stick at. It felt nice to be free from civilization, maybe even just once. He curled in on himself, scared and with a scrambling mind once again. He never thought his plans through well enough, and now he was again at the mercy of his own thoughts. He murmured and whimpered in his forgotten dreams, sweat beading on his pale forehead in the chill night air. Lips quivering with lost words and pleas still stuck to his tongue. 

The first few weeks were rough: constantly afraid of invisible egg shells to step on that weren't even there, hasty apologies and worried stares. It only took a handful of flinching arms and shielding scared eyes for Hosea to realize the boy was abused. Those same flinching arms were covered in belt whips, lashings, and cigarette burns. Those weren't caused by love or by care, but by god if Hosea wasn't going to try to give Arthur that. He took him on horseback rides, showed him how to shoot, how to skin animals, how to fish and what berries to eat. He taught him how to read, how to write, and bought him his first journal. He smiled at him whenever he got the chance and gently touched a shoulder here or there, hoping he wouldn't pull away. He taught him how to con the rich, steal for the poor, and forgive others who wronged him. He taught him love, and that's what Arthur really needed. 

Dutch helped, as well, in the grand scheme of things. He taught the three basic principles as "Dad" of the house: "Finance, Feeding, and Fucking." Different than the Three Fs of the Tenant Right League, but still just as important. How to rob (with style), how to cook (with style), and how to get the ladies (bonus: with style)! His tactics were boisterous and ostentatious compared to Hosea's laidback bravado, and together they created a cluster fuck of a child who could play both parts. 

Arthur Morgan was no longer the poor homeless boy alone on the streets, but a tramp who in every game of poker, cheats. A renowned gunslinger and wanted man with a bounty that would make a lawman faint. Stick thin limbs turned into thick biceps and tiny hands turned into calloused palms. Those scars and burns that pocked his body faded with time to a much fainter glimmer than their original glory. The memories never did, however, and you could still see the flash of fear in his eyes at the crack of a whip or slam of a door. The dreams slowed to a crawl, but every now and then he’d wake with a racing heart and taut arms, forehead dewy with sweat, eyes wide with fear. 

But for now, they were safe, the couple and their unruly son, together, free in the American lands of the west.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it’s really short, I can’t write for shit.


End file.
